Chapter Text
The grunting and groaning of countless men echo through the area. The offensive twang of blood clings to the air as clenched fists slam into the bodies of their comrades over and over. An endless stream of bodies tumble over one another, clumsily fighting their way through the crowd as they bicker. Half of them are aware of the cause, the other half are too idiotic to even bother asking.
But there is one thing Sarada knows for certain. She caused it.
Sarada tightly squeezes her eyes closed. How did I get here?
She wraps her arms around her head a little tighter and curls closer into herself as much as she can. A few days ago, she was sitting pretty on a stool while her mother and other women painted her face, brushed her hair, and dabbed offensive perfume on every inch of her. The disparity in her situation frightens her.
Sighing she curls her body into a tighter ball. The cold muddy ground clings to her clothes as the men surrounding her continue to fight and shout, showering her with blood and sweat as they argue and curse unlike anything she has ever witnessed.
I should have just stayed at home.
The memory of her father and mother’s warm smiles flash through her mind, the comforting, soft smells of dew in their garden immediately filling her senses with a memory she took for granted on far too many occasions. The sound of her cat softly meowing, and even her uncles calling for her attention rings through her memory, enveloping her in a blissful blanket of comfort despite the reality she faced.
These memories alone are almost enough to make her cry right then and there. Her heart aches for the life she once lived. I should have kept my head down and smiled politely. I should have stayed quiet and married rich like I was expected to, she muses silently, fighting back tears that sting at her eyes.
Her parents never forced her to marry. Neither did they pressure her to fulfil her duties so soon. Both of them understand the meaning of love and the importance of finding your true match. Her parents were lucky enough to marry for love, instead of convenience.
So naturally, they wished for nothing more than that for their only child. But just how realistic is it? With match-making services being the preferred route for most notable families, it is hard to feel positive about such things.
Over the years, the number of match-making sessions and men who had come to seek for her hand kept piling up. They all liked her well enough. Sarada, after all, has a beautiful face. However, they did not find her personality suitable for the dutiful wife that most men preferred. Their rejection used to hurt and bother her, but she soon became calloused and only continued with her search for a suitable match in order to please her parents and retain their honour. To bend into society’s will, even if it was not her own.
Being born an only child and a female is not easy. Neither is it what most families would have wanted. Luckily for Sarada, her parents never made her feel that way, especially her papa.
The last memory she has of her father is of him sleeping soundly, his conscription sitting tightly bound on his bedside table. He should have been here, right now, in her place. But Sarada knew she could not let her ailing father ride off to war. It would essentially be sending him off to his death. Besides, he had already fought in a previous war, became a war hero, and brought great honour to their family. If he had a son, such a task would fall to him. But he did not.
So, in the middle of the night, she did what she felt was right. She picked up his conscription notice, sword, armour, and backpack, riding off into the night as the rain pelted down upon her fragile form.
I’m sorry, Papa.
It is the only way she knows how to be of help. To offer something of value to those she loved so dearly since she was unable to meet her match as they so desperately hoped she would. But if she is discovered, she will be killed. A frightening thought, but with all the burdens she has thrust upon her family, at least she can say that she has been of some use to them, even if she is just a daughter born into a world of men.
Something in her shirt squirms and she peeks an eye open to find her snakey companion staring up at her.
“You’re going to get crushed if you stay like this,” Mitsuki says. His forked tongue slithers out as he comes out a little further from her shirt to assess the men. “I can always bite them if they land on you, but that won’t be of much use if they’re already unconscious. You’ll have to find another way to get free.”
“Stop it, Mitsuki!” She scolds, holding onto his neck and stuffing him back inside her shirt. “I told you not to come out. Someone might see you!” She whispers harshly. “This is all your fault!” It is easy to put the blame on her supposed guardian animal, despite knowing that she is the real cause of it.
“Soldiers! Explain why my camp has now become a wrestling pit someone would see in the slums of the capital!”
The authoritative voice tears through the air, silencing the brawl in an instant. It isn’t familiar, but something about it feels comfortable despite the clear class difference clinging to the manner in which he spoke.
Gasps sound from around Sarada as the men rough-housing around her jolt backwards, leather boots smacking together as they distance themselves as quickly as possible. A cold rush of winter air sweeps around her petite figure causing a chill to rush down her back as she uncurls her body a fraction, peeking at her surroundings shyly.
“He started it!” several voices call out in unison, and within moments a dark figure stalks irritably towards her position, the weight of his footsteps sending chills down her spine.
A high-ranking soldier of some sort, no doubt. He is flanked by two others, who also carry themselves in the same manner.
Sarada boldly peeks through her arms. Dark eyes instantly locking on the stupidly handsome face looming above her own.
Blond hair slicked back into a somewhat messy topknot, striking blue eyes, full lips, and several thin lines marking the curves of both his cheeks. It is almost as if a perfectly sculpted statue has come to life before her very eyes. After all, how can anyone be so visually faultless?
A royal, of course , her mind reasons. Even an idiot can tell.
Sarada quickly gets to her feet and dusts herself off, muddied fingertips only serving to soil her breaches further as she attempts to make herself remotely presentable. She can already hear her mother screaming for her to get the grass blades out of her hair, but before she can run her fingers all the way through, they catch on her hair tie and she realises that she is not supposed to think of her appearance. She’s not here as a woman but as a man. That part of her doesn’t exist anymore. It can’t . Her true identity must remain her best-kept secret.
She inhales sharply and straightens her posture, trying to appear taller and manly . But how can she when the man standing before her was not only a head taller but obviously had a well-built body—the body of a soldier . Something she is not even remotely close to obtaining.
Boruto’s brows knit together as he stares at her. “I don’t need anyone causing trouble in my camp!” he bellows, his face drawing dangerously close to Sarada’s, eyes bulging. “Explain yourself!”
It doesn’t take a genius to realise that he was displeased. In fact, he is probably teetering on the line of crossing into a fit of sub psychotic rage based on his laughable, flaring nostrils. But that is beside the point.
“S-sorry!” Sarada averts her gaze, then catches herself. She clears her throat and modulates her voice to be as deep as she can muster. “I mean, sorry about that. But you know how it is!”
“Know what?” One of the officers behind the lead officer asks, his unusually striking alabaster skin and piercing blue eyes seizing her attention in an instant.
“Y-you know…” Sarada falters, suddenly unsure of herself. The men in her village were always starting fights for the silliest of reasons. Whenever she would ask, they would often say it was just because they felt like it. So, this is what she blurts. “I just felt like it!”
Another officer with dark spiky hair quirks his brow up. “You felt like starting a fight?”
“Exactly!” Sarada agrees, proud of her answer.
Hands firmly planting on his hips, Boruto inches closer, his hot breath gliding dangerously across her cheeks. “So you admit it then! You wanted to cause trouble!” he growls lowly, brows twitching as he takes a sharp breath. “Give me your name and your city of origin immediately!”
“We can’t tolerate any untoward activities in this camp! The army might be a place for that bullshit in the eyes of some, but it will absolutely not be tolerated in this outpost,” the spiky-haired officer injects as he approaches the pair of them, hands tucked into the depths of his pockets. “Or will you alter your story suddenly? How convenient.”
Isn’t causing trouble what you guys always do? Sarada muses to herself. But the words of the other officer hurt. A heated reply was on her lips, but she stops herself. Instead, she pulls her conscription scroll out from her belt and hands it over.
“Have you thought of a name?” Mitsuki peeks up at her from inside her shirt, snaking his way up to her shoulder.
“A name?” She asks dumbly. Her knee-jerk reaction is to give her own, but thankfully she is quick to realise that telling them it is Sarada will expose her.
“Yes, what’s your name?” The pale-skinned officer asks.
Upper lip curling upwards in irritation, Boruto pokes her shoulder roughly. “You have one, so come out with it,” he orders, patience clearly running thin; not that he seemed to have much to begin with.
The spiky-haired officer lets loose a sigh as he exhales heavily, clearly growing bored of the conversation, or lack thereof as he plucks his clipboard out from under his arm and flicks through its contents. Dark eyes carefully raking through the list of names.
“Uh—I—uhhh…” Her eyes peel wide as she scrambles to think of a masculine sounding name that will suit her. She has some male acquaintances that she can easily use, however, despite this her mind goes blank.
“Kawaki!” Mitsuki helpfully supplies.
Sarada frowns and tilts her head towards the guy behind her. “His name is Kawaki…” she grumbles under her breath. Using a fellow soldier’s name was not going to work.
“I didn’t ask for his name!” Boruto barks. “I asked for yours, you defiant little shit!”
Sarada winces. Shit. Think faster brain!
“A what ?” Mitsuki hisses. “Fuck you!”
“Hey! Don’t say bad words!” Sarada barks in response to Mitsuki, smacking lightly at his position in her shirt collar.
“Did I hear you right? Are you giving me orders?” Boruto snaps, piercing blue eyes flashing dangerously wide. “You want to spend the night strapped to that post without a meal badly, huh?” he adds as he points to a tall post situated in the centre of the training yard. “I am not against it. Trust me.”
“Calm down your highness y-” the spiky-haired officer starts to interject only to be cut off.
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Boruto barks as he pokes Sarada square in the middle of her forehead. “This defiant little shit is asking for punishment!”
Momentarily forgetting his anger, Mitsuki supplies Sarada with another name. “Sotaro. It means ‘robust eldest son.’”
“Sotaro!” Sarada near shouts in a panic. “My name is Uchiha Sotaro.”
“Uchiha?” The spiky-haired officer gasps. He takes Sarada’s conscription and reads it for himself. “ The Uchiha Sasuke is your father?”
Sarada smiles uncomfortably, shrugging her shoulders as she forces a cheesy smile. “The one and only.”
“You’re also from Konoha?” The pale-skinned officer asks in disbelief. “I didn’t know Uchiha Sasuke had a son. My family would have surely been informed. Shikadai?”
“As would mine,” Shikadai agrees. His lips form a fine line as he calmly hands the conscription over to their commanding officer. “Boruto, wouldn’t your father know as well?”
Sarada inhales a sharp breath and holds it. Her father is a war hero, and if her hunch is right, the three young officers standing before her will definitely know who he is. She just hopes that none of their fathers are closely acquainted with her own during his military days.
“Sotaro?” Boruto whispers in disbelief as his eyes rake up and down her body. “They really could’ve chosen something more, ah…fitting.”
“What? Like bolt?” Inojin half laughs from behind Boruto. “Totally fitting since you have a few screws loose right now your majesty .”
Gritting his teeth, Boruto shoots him a glare. “Just because we grew up together doesn’t mean I won’t whoop your ass into next week, Yamanaka.”
“It fits in a way.” Shikadai scratches the back of his neck and gestures toward Sarada. “It means the eldest son, doesn’t it?” He looks at Sarada and asks, “You are the eldest, right?”
“Yes,” Sarada lies as she nods her head.
“And robust! ” Mitsuki seethes.
Sarada closes her eyes and ignores Mitsuki. With her lithe body, no one in the right mind will ever describe her as robust .
“My father probably knows your family,” Boruto muses somewhat interestingly, going back to his comrades' earlier point. “Konoha is a small town to some extent. Everyone and I mean everyone, knows each other. Remember that. Do not bring your family more shame. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Sarada hangs her head in humiliation, swallowing the fighting words she is still itching to unleash.
Huffing Boruto turns away, rolling his eyes as his arms spread out wide. “As you can all see, thanks to Sotaro, this place is a fucking mess. Actually, that’s putting it rather nicely,” he notes loudly, irritation clinging to his silky voice. “So as your first bonding activity, you will all be picking up every last grain of rice. Not a soul will sleep until this crap is cleaned up. Got it? I want this camp so clean I could eat my breakfast off the ground if I wanted to!”
Groans echo through the crowd as countless eyes flick in Sarada’s direction. “Yes Sir.”
It is going to be a long day.